


May Our Stories Catch Fire (and burn bright enough to catch god's eye)

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [24]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angel Healing, Angst, Anthony J'Acts of Service Crowley, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Burns, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Crowley (Good Omens), F/M, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Tenderness, The Library of Alexandria, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 15:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: The scent clung to Aziraphale’s tunic, seeped into the fabric like a stain.Smoke. Flames. Burnt ink and paper.The ash stuck in his hair like snow, soot smeared across his face.Behind him, the fire was just beginning to die.





	May Our Stories Catch Fire (and burn bright enough to catch god's eye)

**Author's Note:**

> y'all think i'm going to get the prompt _ash_ and not write about the library of alexandria?_  
bitch please_
> 
> _  
_i'm very proud of this own so please read and enjoy_  
_

**Alexandria - 48 B.C.**

The scent clung to Aziraphale’s tunic, seeped into the fabric like a stain.

Smoke. Flames. Burnt ink and paper.

The ash stuck in his hair like snow, soot smeared across his face.

Behind him, the fire was just beginning to die.

He coughed as he stumbled into the small cottage he’d been living in since he’d first moved to Egypt, and he gently placed his armful of scrolls onto his desk before collapsing into his chair, choking as his all-too-human lungs begged for air.

H still felt the heat of the flames on his skin, saw the raw, red patches where the blisters were beginning to form.

Aziraphale had never been one for sleep, but he found his eyelids growing heavier with every passing moment, and soon they slipped closed, the world fading to black.

It was Crawly who woke him. Crawly, dressed in long black silks, her hair piled atop her head in elaborate braids, pinned with golden combs. Crawly, with all her finery singed and ruined, holding a burlap sack in her arms.

“Rise and shine, angel,” she muttered, dropping the sack unceremoniously onto the table where the angel usually took his meals.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale mumbled, rubbing his eyes. There was a flash of pain as his hand made contact with his face, and Aziraphale winced, remembering the burns that littered his skin. “What are you—”

“I figured you’d want those,” the demon interrupted, gesturing at the sack. “Couldn’t think of anyone else who’d take as good care of them, and it wouldn’t do to let them get destroyed after I nearly got myself dicorporated saving them from that bloody fire.”

Aziraphale pulled the bag open and gasped.

There were at least a dozen scrolls, a few heavy codices bound in leather, and a good deal of wooden tablets inside, each a bit singed but otherwise intact.

“Crawly,” Aziraphale murmured, pulling a massive book from the bag. He ran his fingers over the soft cover, traced along the string bindings and etched title. “This is—how? Why?”

“Oh, you know,” the demon said with a casual shrug. “Encouraging academia over theology is very demonic work. These things are practically blasphemous. Couldn’t very well let them all burn.”

“No, I suppose not,” the angel agreed, his eyes dancing over the carefully inked words. He finally looked up at the demon, who was lounging on Aziraphale’s perfectly made bed (perfectly made because the angel never  _ unmade _ it to begin with). “Thank you, my dear.”

Crawly gagged. “No, no, don’t—don’t do  _ that,  _ don’t—it wasn’t  _ nice _ , it wasn’t—Satan help me, I’m being  _ evil _ , alright? Stealing books.  _ Encouraging heresy _ . Nothing—don’t  _ thank me _ , angel,” she rambled, tugging on the hem of her skirts. “Ergh. ‘ _ Thank you’ _ . Disgusting.”

Aziraphale stared at the demon but didn’t say anything else.

Crawly’s eyes seemed to glow in the pale evening light, the luminous gold shining like stars as she continued to mutter under her breath.

Finally, she was quiet, and those enchanting eyes met Aziraphale’s. “You haven’t healed yourself,” she stated, looking the angel over.

“No, I haven’t.”

“They’ll get infected if you don’t deal with them soon,” Crawly warned. “They’ll crack and burst and then you’ll get—you’ll get fucking  _ gangrene _ or something like that.”

“Nasty business, that,” Aziraphale said.

“So heal them,” Crawly insisted.

Aziraphale looked down at the rough, peeling skin of his hands, his legs, his feet.

He couldn’t.

Crawly stared at him for a moment before sighing. “It’s okay, angel,” she murmured, taking Aziraphale’s hands in her own. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The words were gentle, sweet, and oh so kind.

“But I should’ve—”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” the demon said resolutely. “You don’t—there’s no need to  _ punish yourself _ , Aziraphale. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s that arrogant cockhead Caesar’s.”

“Oh, if I wasn’t an angel,” Aziraphale muttered, mostly to himself, with a scowl.

“I’m sure you’d give him hell,” Crawly agreed, but the words were only partly in jest. They were quiet for another moment, and then the Serpent whispered, “Would you let me do it, then? Heal them?”

Aziraphale blinked back tears—surely angel tears were the holiest of waters, and he could hardly—he could barely—it wouldn’t—he couldn’t risk Crawly getting hurt. Not now.

Possibly not ever.

He nodded.

Crawly hummed and picked up a clay basin next to the desk and left the cottage. A few minutes later, he returned with it full of clear, sparkling water, and knelt down at the angel’s feet.

“Crawly, you don’t—”

“Shh,” Crawly said quietly. “Let me.”

And so Aziraphale did.

He sat there as Crowley dipped a rag into the water and gently ran the cloth over Aziraphale’s calves, his knees, the tops of his thighs, his feet. Crawly wiped the rag over Aziraphale’s shoulders, his neck, his arms and his hands, the cool water soothing as it went. And then, when all that was left behind was shiny new skin and magic mixed with water, the demon took a bottle of lavender oil and tipped it over in his hand, and rubbed that too into the angel’s skin.

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe, could only stare as those golden eyes focussed solely on their task.

It felt like salvation.

**

**London - 1941 A.D.**

Aziraphale couldn’t help but noticed the way Crowley winced and grimaced as he drove them back to the bookshop. The demon was obviously putting on a brave face, but Aziraphale had known him long enough (and, as he was coming to discover,  _ loved _ him long enough) to recognise when something was wrong.

“Crowley,” he said, “Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

“‘Course, angel,” the demon said after clearing his throat. “Why, uh, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Maybe because you just spent at least ten minutes standing on consecrated ground, but of course, I could be wrong.”

Crowley scowled at him but didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale didn’t mention it again until they reached the shop, until Crowley had agreed to come in to split a bottle (or three, or four, or maybe even more) between them. In fact, Aziraphale didn’t mention it until he was quite sure the demon was too inebriated to be properly cross about it, and then and only then did he bring it back up.

“You ought to let me have a look at your feet,” the angel said casually. “I’ sure they can’t be in excellent shape after all of that.”

Crowley frowned. “‘Sss nothing for you to worry ‘bout,” he insisted with a shrug that radiated forced nonchalance.

“Please, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

He knew Crowley wouldn’t say no. He never said no.

Not to Aziraphale.

And so the demon slowly slipped off his shoes and his socks, revealing charred, blackened skin.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat.

He was, all at once, thrown back to another moment, another night, one also full of smoke and ash and burns and saved books.

And he realised then that the feelings that had bloomed in the rubble of a church in London had first begun to sprout in the smoking remains of library in a city under seige.

The angel had a 2,000-year-old debt to pay.

And so he sunk to his knees in front of the demon, held his burned, blistered foot in his hands, and whispered, “Let me.”

**Author's Note:**

> again, i love this, so please give me that sweet, sweet feedback


End file.
